Mercy Hill was the kind of place that looked like it hadn’t moved since 1962. One gas station. One bar. Two churches. And a sheriff that drove the same truck every day at exactly 7:00 a.m.

Seth Gecko walked into town on a Tuesday and never gave his real name. He paid cash. Bought a six-pack and a pack of Reds. Rented room #9 at the El Camino Inn and kept the blinds shut even when the sun went down. He didn’t talk much. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t smile unless it was forced. But the town talked about him anyway.

That man with the tattoo on his neck and a scar on his temple. The one who looks like he’s been to war and didn’t come back right. They didn’t ask questions because they didn’t want the answers.

Seth spent most of his days sitting in front of the motel, boots on the railing, drinking warm beer and watching the horizon. At night, he dreamed of fire. Of Richie. Of fangs in the dark. But lately? The dreams felt closer.

He noticed it in the people’s eyes. The way the old man at the diner flinched when he asked about the hills west of town. The boy behind the counter at the hardware store who said, “You don’t wanna be here after sundown.” And the preacher. That quiet, pale man who stared at Seth a little too long every Sunday when he passed the chapel. Like he knew.

Seth wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t trying to save anyone. He just wanted peace. Rest. A place to breathe. But he could feel it again—that buzz in the air. That chill behind his eyes. Like the world was holding its breath.

And Seth Gecko? He was reaching for the shotgun he promised himself he’d never use again.